


Making the band

by zort



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Face-Fucking, Forced Ejaculation, Gang Rape, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Slapping, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zort/pseuds/zort
Summary: This is Chris's very first gig with Slipknot and he gets a whole lot more than what he was expecting.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	Making the band

**Author's Note:**

> Back from 2007. Collaboration with dropletsofblood.
> 
> Heed the warning and the tags: this is graphic rape from the point of view of the victim.
> 
> Title comes from an old MTV show of the same title.

It starts off the same as he'd revised, which was good in some ways because it quelled his nerves about being on stage in a crowded venue wearing a mask he'd thrown together the previous night in hopes it wouldn't fall apart on the day. The guitars kick it off with a well-known riff, then Joey comes in and before he knows it, he's playing in sync with Shawn, keeping an ear out for Joey so he doesn't play over the top and watching Corey, who screams until the vocal cords in his throat protrude whilst he engages the audience.  
  
And he doesn't miss any of his backing vocal cues either, which is a relief and a wonder because so far he always has missed at least one during the rehearsals. He's on another planet; he's flying so high, doing all he's ever wanted and not even missing a single beat.  
  
Then something heavy crashes into his back in the middle of a part when all he wants to do is enjoy himself. It takes him a full ten seconds to figure out the Clown's standing over him, pretty much straddling him. And when he sits up to crawl out or something, he feels strong fingers dig painfully into his shoulders, forcing him down.  
  
After a moment's pause to gather his thoughts, he grasps his mic in one hand, wraps his arm around the rung of his drums and holds the front of the kit with his other hand. Then he waits until the Clown's vocal cue to push himself up, leaning forward to give himself more strength, but he doesn't count on the Clown looping an arm around his waist, pressing his body down, and pushing him further into his drums, all but lying on top of him. And it's not just the Clown's weight that takes the breath out of him, but the fact that no-one, band or fans, is even so much as looking at them.  
  
Don't they care that the band's oldest percussionist is rubbing up against him?  
  
Maybe they don't, as long as he doesn't miss his own cue at least, which he almost does. For a fleeting instant he thinks the Clown is about to hit him.  
  
But no, the Clown doesn't seem to notice his split second of hesitation, instead the other man starts rubbing against him. Chris can feel the warmth against his ass, the low growl in his ear, the fingers digging painfully into his shoulder and hip.  
  
It suddenly occurs to him that the Clown isn't just fighting or playing around with him like he often does with Sid. He is feeling him up, which is a bizarre notion because surely the Clown is straight?  
  
Though the thought is put to the test when he realises that the Clown is actually hard, and as much as he'd like to dismiss it as simply energy from being on stage, it becomes more and more likely that he is hard over him as the Clown breathes laboriously in his ear and rubs his side, jerking his shoulder back as he pushes again him. Chris shudders, a nauseous feeling passing over him and tries to focus on the song rather than the Clown. Maybe if he ignores him long enough, he'll go away.  
  
In the end ignoring doesn't really work out, but the next song requires them both on their respective drum kits, actually drumming and so Shawn has to pull away. Chris breathes a sigh of relief and lets himself drown in the gig again.  
  
Until the next song, when they only have backing vocals to do again, and as soon as he's done with his, he realises the Clown is back behind him, pushing him into the drum kit and most definitely grinding into him. Instinctively, he bucks back violently and only realises Shawn's fallen to the floor, shortly after the thunderous cheer that comes from the audience.  
  
He looks over his shoulder and sees Shawn still on the floor, looking up at the ceiling as he catches his breath. After a moment to gather his thoughts, Chris puts his mic on top of the drum kit and biting his lip to stay silent, tries to pull the kit further back from the stage and slightly on a side angle. He barely manages to move it, the weight of it too heavy for him alone to try and shift it, so he settles for wedging himself between the kit and the speakers.  
  
There, let the Clown try and get to him now.  
  
He watches Shawn out of the corner of his eye, listening out for his next cue and a smirk of satisfaction pulls at his lips when the other percussionist clambers up and scowls, surveying his new position by his drums.  
  
Shawn starts to stride over and for once, Chris is thankful for Sid's idiocies as the young DJ takes a flying leap at the Clown, landing on his back and effectively distracting him. With a look that just screams you'll keep, Shawn glares and turns on his heels, moving to the other side of the stage with his protégé.  
  
Chris manages to get through the rest of the gig without any interference from Shawn, unless you count the dark looks he receives from across the other side of the stage. Sid keeps him occupied as the show progresses, getting seemingly more hyper by the minute and even after the show, the Clown's attention is drawn to the young DJ as he somehow succeeds in damaging both his and Craig's equipment when he races around the stage, trying to release energy.  
  
He watches several of the techies for a few minutes before walking off the stage and down the hall towards the dressing room. But he barely gets within shouting distance of the others or the groupies hanging around the doorway of the dressing room when a hand grabs his shoulder and roughly pulls him back.  
  
He opens his mouth to protest but all that gets out is a breathy _oomph_ as his back connects violently with the wall. And he would try to protest again, but now it's a nasty blow to his guts that makes him double over and lose what little breath he had left. He can feel tears welling up in his eyes, more form the humiliation than any real pain, and he fights to stand back up and face whoever it is that's attacking him.  
  
His attacker has other plans as it becomes apparent when, before he can pull his head back up, he's rolled around roughly and finds himself pressed face first into the wall. Strong hands pin his shoulders in place and a broad body covers his.  
  
"Gotta learn your place Chrissy... I'm going to teach you..."  
  
And before he can tell Shawn how full of shit he thinks he is, the bigger man grabs his head and rams it into the wall viciously hard. The last thing he's conscious of is irrational fear pooling in his guts.  
  
  
  
  
  
He tastes blood.  
  
It fills his mouth and he chokes, turns his head to the side to spit it out and is stopped by the dry, disgusting taste of cloth stuffed in his mouth. He pushes it away from the back of his mouth with his tongue. Surprisingly the cloth drops off. Breathing heavily, he tentatively tries to draw his arms and legs up to his chest. But his worst fears are confirmed when he realises he can't move at all.  
  
"Have to say, I am impressed."  
  
"I told you it would work."  
  
"Yeah… but he seems like a strong guy."  
  
"Not for much longer."  
  
He thinks he can pick the voices, but he doesn't want to. That would throw a whole new confusing angle on things, and he is already fucking confused enough as it is. Slowly he opens his eyes, wincing as his vision adjusts to the bright light shining in his face and closes them again, a shudder passing over him when he hears laughter.  
  
They're all there, and the line about sharing everything like in a family resounds in his head. They're all sniggering and most of them are shirtless, his breath speeds even more and he tries desperately to crawl away.  
  
"Stop that!"  
  
The loud voice makes him freeze and a low whimper escapes his throat.  
  
Trying to locate who spoke, he cranes his neck around until he discovers the Clown standing right behind him, so close it hurts his eyes a little. Around them the others have stopped mocking him too, and Chris remembers that weird comment about not knowing his place. It doesn't seem so indecipherable anymore. Shawn leers at him, combing his fingers through his hair.  
  
He glances around at the others, shuddering at Shawn's touch and closes his eyes, breathing erratically as he tries to figure out what's going on. From what he can work out, despite his thoughts melting together into overpowering panic, it's some kind of power struggle. He is struggling, and they are in power.  
  
What puzzles him is why they are all there, watching him with wide, predatory grins on their faces. He has guessed that Shawn liked him, or at the very least wanted to fuck him. The Clown has gotten that message across loud and clear on stage, but are the others just going along with it for a free fuck because Shawn is charitable enough to 'share'? And why him? Why not a groupie? Perhaps if he can convince them to see the idiocy of their decision, he might get himself out of this.  
  
Forcing himself to smile, he opens his eyes again.  
  
"Hey guys… you don't really want to do this, do you? You'd get a much better screw out of one of our groupies..."  
  
Someone sniggers and he figures that's not a very good sign. Something soft traces his jaw. The Clown's face invades his view again. There's a predatory glint in his eyes.  
  
"Wrong... you are exactly what we want, Fehn. You gotta learn your place in this band."  
  
Suddenly he can't see anything anymore as the Clown wraps a blindfold around his eyes.  
  
"Here's a hint: you were the last to join..."  
  
And he would answer, except the fear is stronger and all that gets out of his mouth his a croaky squeal. Blindly, he tries to squirm away again which only results in them laughing at him some more.  
  
An overwhelming feeling of dread fills him and he knows that he's one step away from either hysteria or passing out, which he knows he has to try and prevent at all costs. The last thing he wants is to be out cold while they fuck him and God knows what else. He swallows, flinching when he feels someone's lips against his neck, sucking and biting his skin.  
  
"Mm, you taste nice."  
  
Shawn's voice.  
  
Tilting his head away, he groans when pain shoots down his spine, the burning sensation only made worse when someone slaps his face hard.  
  
"How many times we gotta tell you? Stop fucking moving."  
  
He keeps still, moments later writhing when he feels hands on his knees, pushing his legs apart and holding them. Someone else's lips join Shawn's and the Clown leans closer to him and licks his jawbone. Whoever else has decided to join in trails a series of bites and kisses down his neck and chest, tracing their fingers over his ribcage. Then suddenly it hits him. He's not wearing a shirt. And if he wasn't wearing a shirt, then that meant...  
  
Oh shit.  
  
And he really, really tries to keep still when somebody's finger trails along his cock, but his natural reaction is to try and jerk away. It gets him a slap on the stomach and a painful bite on the chest. He whimpers a wordless plea before his brain can stop it. Thankfully it only launches the others into more taunting laughter.  
  
Trying to kick the guy currently exploring his groin, Chris realises they've actually tied his ankles to his thighs. It makes him feel like a cheap whore, which may or may not be their purpose, he's too scared to think anymore.  
  
He knows it's only a matter of time now. He's lost count of the mouths on his chest, the hands all over him, the voices commenting. They're acting as if he can't hear them, as if he doesn't feel what they're doing, as if he's nothing more than a blow up doll.  
  
A hand gripping his hair hard is all the warning he gets before one of them pushes his cock in his mouth.  
  
The mouths biting his ribs stop all of a sudden, moving away with a few quick, teasing licks and he feels someone straddle his chest. They tightly grip his neck, holding his head up and fucking his mouth like he's seen them do to groupies. And he almost considers biting down, just to spite them, when the hand tightens. He wheezes, flushing when he hears them laugh at the way he gasps for breath. The hand loosens, but he freezes as someone licks the shell of his ear.  
  
"Attempt to bite me again and trying to breathe will be the least of your fucking problems, Fehn."  
  
He stops moving and gags when whoever's on him forces him to deep-throat. Under the blindfold, he closes his eyes. A mewling noise escapes from him when he feels one of them lick his thigh, grasping his cock.  
  
"Can I join?"  
  
He feels the weight on his chest ease as whoever it is turns slightly. At first he thinks they're talking to him, but then the notion is dismissed when there's a reply.  
  
"Yeah... I'm sure Chris won't mind… Ain't that right, Chris?... Kid fucking loves the attention."  
  
His legs are pulled apart more and he tenses, preparing himself as much as he can when someone grabs his hips, fingernails dig deep into his skin. But he's distracted from the one stroking his thigh when the one on his chest forces his cock deep again and comes down his throat without warning.  
  
He coughs, or tries to, and dry heaves. He can feel his eyes filling with tears and somehow he's grateful for the blindfold.  
  
The feeling lasts for all of one second before he's freezing, arching, futilely trying to get away from the intrusion in his ass. He can hardly believe how easily the guy's pushing into him until it dawns on him lube must have been used, loads and loads of it.  
  
"OOOoooh, yeah! Fehn, you take it like a pro!"  
  
There's nowhere to go, nothing else to do than try to relax and hope it won't last long. He can't relax, pain flashes through his spine every time his band mate's cock penetrates him, and as another cock fills his mouth he gradually feels himself drowning.  
  
In his head, everything goes silent and it seems like he can breathe out slowly, a false sense of comfort steals over him. He can't feel anything and if he wasn't so blissfully happy at having the pain melt away instantly, he'd swear he'd gone paralysed. Paralysed by his own band-mate's cock in his ass and another so far down his throat, it’s inches away from his ribcage.  
  
The feeling goes away just as fast as it came as someone's hand viciously belts his face, grabbing him just under his neck and pulling his head up. He hadn’t realised they’d released his mouth.  
  
Static reverberates in his ears and he feels like he's just been shocked with one of those electrical pads they have in the hospital. Brought back from the brink of death.  
  
Pain rushes back, exploding in every nerve of his body and, in spite of the weight on top of him, he arches up as much as he can, raising his hips and screams, his head aching worse than any hangover he's had before.  
  
His scream is cut short when someone's plump lips crash onto his, their fingers digging into the nape of his neck as they hold him in a powerful kiss. And while he's not game enough to turn his head away, he goes limp in hopes that they'll get bored of him. Whoever's kissing him doesn't seem particularly fussed at his lack of engagement, instead turning their attention to vigorously licking the come from his lips. Something brushes the corner of his mouth, making him freeze. Metal. Lip rings.  
  
The image that flashes through his mind is worse, only because suddenly his attacker isn't unknown anymore, he cannot pretend it’s some big, mean, anonymous fucker.  
  
Right now he knows the guy sucking on his tongue hard enough to make it painful, he can picture the look on his face. He feels cold, his stomach turns and churns, and he gurgles in protest when a hand wraps around his cock.  
  
Someone sniggers nastily. "Looks like someone's a complete whore..."  
  
There's a concert of laughs, and Chris suddenly feels his own hard on.  
  
He silently curses himself, screwing his eyes shut and willing himself to calm the fuck down and stop reacting. Then the hand around his cock is replaced by lips and before he can stop himself, he arches up into what he thinks, but hopes is not Paul's mouth. Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he dulls a moan. He feels fingers running up his bare arm to his shoulder, which then curve around his jaw and tilt his head slightly. Momentarily distracted, he shivers when he feels someone lick his face, breathing hotly in his ear.  
  
"I think you're enjoying this too much, Chrissy."  
  
He can hear the others echo that comment, things that make him want to disappear, things that are more painful that what they've done so far, things that strip him of what little dignity he'd managed to keep. He can feel more tears soaking the blindfold and he gurgles something between a sob and a moan when the tongue circles his cock, presses against the head in that way that's usually so good and that right now makes him want to retch or become paralyzed. Instead his body reacts in its usual manner, trembles and bucks up into the warmth.  
  
"Hey Paul, ten bucks if you can make him scream."  
  
Chris tenses at this, trying even harder not to make a sound now. Whoever's near his face, their breath gliding across his cheek, speaks up. "He won't, y'know...if he's managed to keep pretty silent up until now, he won't start all of a sudden..."  
  
"Yeah, then let me give it a shot."  
  
"You wait your turn."  
  
"What is this, a queue at a fucking supermarket... Jesus, if you want to do something, then go ahead."  
  
"Mm, like we could get any more perverted."  
  
"Hey, you agreed to this too."  
  
"I never said I didn't... it's just wrong."  
  
"No shit."  
  
"I have dibs on him when Paul's finished.."  
  
The worst part isn't anymore that his body's betraying him, it's the way they're discussing it, later when it's over that's what they said that'll come back to haunt him.  
  
He's shaking uncontrollably; it's a mix of fear, disgust and the reactions from his traitorous cock. There are lips, or maybe wet fingers on his chest, someone pinches his nipples, he arches, pushing into Paul's throat and just like that, he climaxes. There's no satisfaction in it, he barely grunts, more because the biological mechanism isn't as easy when it's not riding pleasure and he falls back on the drum kit, the tears have finished soaking his blindfold, he can feel them trail down to his ears.  
  
Fingers curve around his jaw, running over the protruding cords in his throat and it's not until he feels Paul get off of him that he goes limp again, his muscles aching. He barely takes a deep breath in before they're at him again, taunting him about how much he enjoyed that and he feels like telling them just to shut the fuck up, but it's not worth it.  
  
Then as he’s tuned them out, mentally trying to figure out which part of his body is injured and which is okay, even if it’s all tainted and dirty and it makes him sick just thinking about what's on his skin, he feels hands grab hold of his hips and another, slightly less heavy weight clambers on top of him.  
  
"Bets in, guys… I'll make him scream, bitch's gonna cop it now."  
  
He hadn't thought it could get worse, but the terror that overtakes him is like nothing he's ever felt. His stomach knots and his guts liquefy. Oxygen just won't reach his lungs, just like asthma. And as much as he wants to, he can't scream when another cock pushes inside, the pain is too intense for anything else than his body frantically arching, more tensed than a bow. He curls his toes and fingers so tight he's sure he's going to break them, anything to divert the pain from his ass.  
  
"Fucking hell! What did I tell you about lube?"  
  
"Shut it, Craig."  
  
At the mention of that name, he can almost picture the look on Craig's face, knowing very well how much it sucks to be on the receiving end of Craig's glares.  
  
A smack so hard that his cheek smarts brings him back to reality and he suppresses a scream as the guy fucking him continues to pound into him, the tight feeling eases only because of the fluid that starts to trickle down his thighs. He knows it must be blood, and the very thought of it makes it harder for him to breathe. The pain in his chest is a dull contrast to that in his hips and below. Swallowing back a mouthful of vomit, he gurgles.  
  
"Open up."  
  
As far as the orders he's been given tonight go, it's not even harsh but he's too confused to process what the hell they're talking about. His body moves rhythmically, his head catches painfully and repeatedly against the rim of the drum under him, his brain has stopped processing things, he isn’t sure he even knows his name anymore.  
  
Hands grab his face, turn his head and the voice repeats the command as fingers pry his mouth open. He only realises what it means when he tastes cock again. He gags, dry-heaves, strains against his bonds. The only tangible result is a painful grip on his hips, steadying him and possibly even more painful thrusts inside him.  
  
He screams.  
  
Slumping on his drum kit, the tight grip they have on him turns numb. He gags as his band mate comes down his throat. A wave of hate passes over him when he hears their laughter and jeering in the background.  
  
Minutes later, they get off of him and he's surprised when he doesn't feel another weight on top of him, replacing them. He wonders how much longer he can last before he falls unconscious again and doesn't wake up. Even though the thought of them killing him at the end of this has crossed his mind, he knows they wouldn't, if only because they need him.  
  
He tilts his head, his neck aching because of someone's rough hands and fights the urge to vomit because he doesn't want to choke. Doesn't want to die. Not yet anyway. His attention snaps back to the various pains pulsing through his body and suddenly he becomes aware of the silence that's filled the room.  
  
Disorientated and confused, he waits.  
  
And he can barely bite back a whimper when he feels something move around his lower end. Frantically he prays, even though he doesn’t know who he’s praying to.  
  
_Please, please, please don’t let them hurt me again, I’ll be good, please, no, please…_  
  
In his head it’s a whirlpool of pleas and fear, so loud he doesn’t notice what they’re doing until suddenly his legs fall free over the drum. He presses them together tight, it’s barely adequate but it makes his head a little less cramped. Then he feels the tension in one shoulder ease, then the other one and he can’t believe he’s free.  
  
“Better go and get dressed. And watch yourself, next time we won’t be quite so nice.”  
  
It’s so low and croaky, Chris isn’t sure he recognizes the voice. He rolls over to his side, biting his lips hard not to make a sound and waits for a long time before he finally reaches for the blindfold.  
  
The room is small and empty. He refuses to recognize the drum kit as Shawn’s spare one; he doesn’t want to know that this was planned.  
  
He finds his clothes piled up in a corner and pulls them on. When he stands, he can feel something oozing down his leg and he knows he needs to shower. He also knows he’ll never feel clean again but it won’t matter because he’ll be doing what he loves. All he needs is to push it back far enough to forget.  
  
When he walks out the door at last, he feels like he’s walking out of a nightmare. Things are blurred. He smiles at Jim as he passes him in the corridor.  
  
  
[the end]

**Author's Note:**

> Find me : [incredizort](https://incredizort.tumblr.com/)


End file.
